The Perfect and Miserable Life
by AxelDO
Summary: This is the story I made up about the outlook of a teenage boy's life. It includes themes from various tv shows, is inspired by Salinger, and is mainly true. No people mentioned in this book are real, nor are many of the places mentioned. This is my first time publishing, though I have spent quite some time on this already. I'm open to criticism, constructive or otherwise. 3
1. A Letter from the Author

A Letter from the Author

This is the story of me, a miserable sixteen year-old boy in one of the nicest suburban homes on his street, in the happy little state of Rhode Island, in what is regarded as the best school known to his state, Tolkein High School. It may come as a surprise that a boy with almost everything he could want, a happy family, intelligence, and a summer home on the lake surrounded by beautiful nature, could be unhappy, but everyone has their quarrel with their state of life. My name is Alex Lawson, and this is my life. This semi-true autobiography will begin in the second semester of my sophomore year of high school.

I am a boy of average height for his grade, my doctors always said he was right where he should be, regarding height and weight, compared to other boys of his age. I always had excelled in his studies, especially those that required more creative thinking, and received some of the highest marks in my class. I left the eighth grade with a GPA over 4.0, a fully working self-built steam turbine, and aspirations for greatness as I entered the doors of the boys-only Tolkein High School.


	2. Chapter 1: An Introduction

Chapter 1: An Introduction

I lay curled in a ball; surrounded by a nest of sheets, blankets, and various articles of clothing. Caught somewhere in the limbo of awake and asleep, I dreamed of being far away and happy, but this dream was soon shattered by the piercing voice of my mother yelling "Time to wake up sweetie!" at decibels far surpassing those of rock concert stadium speakers. I, slowly being dragged out of his comfortable dream and warmth, tried to deny that I ever heard my mother's wake-up call. To my dismay, the shrieks only grew in frequency as my mother yelled another two times, forcing me to accept that the sweet bliss of sleep was over.

I, a young teenager just fifteen years old, arose from my nest and immediately stretched. From a quick glance in a mirror, I saw that my dirty blonde hair gave the appearance that a small tornado had appeared and threw locks in every direction imaginable. I cracked my spine and relaxed looking satisfied as I rummaged through an old broken dresser in search of an acceptable button down shirt, tie, dress pants, and a fresh pair of underwear. After finally finding clothing that I judged to smell and look up to par, but not exceeding, I sat still in front of the mirror and drifted off into the mindless routine of dressing myself and packing my school belongings.

Once at the bus stop, I waited with a pack strewn over my right shoulder large that looked as if it would burst at the seams if the most infinitesimal bit of weight was added to the load. The old yellow bus squeaked to a halt at his stop, and I chose a seat at random in which he could decompress and prepare for the next six hours of his day. A fellow student, but in lower classes, Teddy instantly jeered at my unkempt appearance. Teddy and a few other students found humor in making me, a poorly dressed, fool, agitated, and so they proceeded to make as many rude remarks about anything under the sun regarding me. As usual, I deflected the comments with, for him, a predictable method. First, I would ignore them, but as that began to fail, I began to joke along with his abusers, and finally, I would get angry. This method had been tried and failed hundreds of times, but personalities are constant, and thus I never changed.

About thirty minutes later, the bus came to a screeching halt for the second time that day, the hydraulic doors squeaked open, and the students left the bus. I took a huge deep breath, threw my backpack over my other shoulder to make the load equal on my already aching back, fixed my tie, and pushed through the green and gold doors. I despised the school in every manner possible, from sports, to school spirit, to the students themselves, to most importantly the teachers. Almost the second I entered the campus, the bell for first period rang sharply, resonating in my head painfully, for math was my first period class.


	3. Chapter 2: An Average Day

Bundled up, I strolled into the cold four hundred hallway with chills running up my spine. I inhaled deeply before I turned the cold, chinese-steel door handle under the numbers "401". I ducked my head below as I scurried to my seat, placing my books to my left and opening my math materials. The old dusty geometry text book made a pleasing sound as I rifled through the pages, trying to give the illusion that I was following the day's lesson. The class was buzzing, and after taking a few quick peaks at the teacher's desk, I sighed in relief and took part in the conversations. Mrs. Bettyann appeared to be absent.

A look of disappointment and discontent developed on one of the students faces as he peered out the door window. Intrigued, I peered in the general direction with a look of apprehension, praying to God that my fears of Mrs. Bettyann being present were false. My eyes connected with the clear window revealing the slightly deformed facial features of the woman, and crippling disappointment phased over my face. Smiling to the neighboring teacher revealed Bettyann's off-color yellow or black teeth, each resembling stalagmites in their conic, fang-like shape.

Mrs. Bettyann stands at around five foot five inches tall, and almost as wide. She frequently dresses in clothes that resemble rags in their undesirable color choices. (On a side note, she currently had taken a liking to a colors only describable as "smoker's teeth yellow" and "baby food brown felt"). They contoured to her rolls of fat as if being sucked into voids as the fabric went around her body. After she passed me, my nose shriveled up in disgust for following her was her usual scent of dollar store "Cinnamon Apple Febreeze" bottles and aged moth balls.

Like a deer in headlights, I sat frozen to my chair unable to move as she slowly pulled out her computer and began her lesson.

As she trailed off about various theorems and postulates, so did my mind. I began to think of things to write, ideas to try, places to be, and most importantly, not math. I scrawled various sketches of anything that came to mind with my head cocked to one side as if interested. After Bettyann brought up two photos of congruent triangles and a given of two sides and the angle formed by them is also congruent, she asked, "Well, what information are we given here, Alex".

Glancing up from my notebook, I answered, "Those two triangles are congruent due to the Side-Angle-Side theorem".

"I asked, what information are we given about these triangles. Care to try again?" Bettyann said.

Still confused I responded, "The two triangles are congruent due to the Side-Angle-Side postulate?' in a confused, and slightly coy, manner.

Obviously annoyed, she almost yelled, "Alex, I cannot comprehend what you are misunderstanding here. What…INFORMATION… are we given in this example?"

"I don't understand the question, my answer is correct though, so what more is needed?"

"Alex, I don't know if you don't understand this, but I don't quite like you" she spoke through her clenched, fear-inspiring teeth. "You are clueless". From there, she continued on with her lesson and I continued on with letting my mind drift.

The sound of the bell once again rang, but this time the sound was warmer and more pleasant. I hastily stuffed the math binder and geometry textbook into my backpack, a task not easy by any means, and went up the stairs to English class with Mrs. Mary.

I entered the class and set my things down next to my good friend Carl, a young man resembling Bilbo Baggins, a hobbit from J.R.R Tolkien's series _The Lord of the Rings,_ for he is small in stature and always smiling. Mrs. Mary entered the class slowly, for she was very frail and old. At around seventy-five she had a hunch larger than that of most grizzly bears, always wore a grandmotheresque smile. She spoke with a slight lisp due to a recent surgery that made her produce an excess of saliva, and rarely was angry. After shuffling to the podium at which she gave most of her lectures, she looked at the class with an icy stare and said, "I will return in five minutes, then we will take our test on Clive Cussler novels", and then shuffled back out.

Panic. Panic was all I could think of at that moment. Panic for I had just been reminded that I had had to read a Clive Cussler novel, panic for I hadn't yet chosen a Clive Cussler novel, and panic for I had a test on one such novel. Turning to my left, I gave a dreadful look to Carl, who studious as always, was reading _The Pacific Vortex_ by Clive Cussler. I looked him in the eyes and said, "Carl, I've made a big mistake."

"You didn't read, did you?" He said in an 'I knew it' kind of tone.

"I… yea"

"Fine" Carl proceeded to tell me the most basic synopsis of the story _The Pacific Vortex_ possible due to the time constraints. Just as he finished, Mrs. Mary returned to the classroom in a jolly mood and passed around sheets of paper with one essay prompt for a title.

I couldn't have been happier. My heart didn't leap that day, it soared, for I love essays. For as long as I can remember, writing has come naturally for me and has been a hobby of mine. I settled down in my chair, flashed Carl a smile, mouthing the words "Thank you", and put my pencil to work. Forty minutes later I turned in the work of art with high expectations, slung my pack over a shoulder and head off to the last noteworthy class of the day, History.

History class with Mr. Stephens was spectacular. He was a teacher that really made me think and dissect history. He was in his mid to late twenties, yet had white hair all about. Mr. Stephens walked a certain way as if to exude swagger, but due to his relative closeness in age it was unachieved. Similar to his personality, his deep voice paused dramatically at points, sometimes for emphasis others for his own dramatic flair. His fatal flaw that often killed my interest was his need to verify that "My classroom is a non-Politically Correct zone", but later to lie when confronted with a dissenting opinion on a subject. Despite his flaws, I was glued to my seat with interest

Mr. Stephens's class was predictable. He began class with a prayer titled, "Slow me down, Lord". Due to the funny accentuation he placed on key words in the prayer, most of the class, me included, mocked him mercilessly as he sat with his eyes closed. At this moment, we were reading _1776_ by "THE David McCullough", as my history teacher insisted I address this man. I sat in the front row, captivated by the story of how my great country had come to be. What always intrigued me most was the Machiavellian nature the Founding Fathers all possessed, for my entire life up to then I was only taught of their greatness, never their slyness. Class went by overall uneventfully, I asked too many questions as usual and classmates groaned as I made lessons drag on. The class came to a close as usual, uneventfully.

As the day came to a close, I bundled myself up once again for the unrelenting cold of waiting for the school bus to take me home. I made some small talk with a few kids outside, but as I grew bored of that I slumped against the cold cinder block wall, and waited for the steal squeaking of ruined brakes of my bus. Solemnly, I boarded my bus, only to repeat my morning bus routine.

Once home, exhausted from a brutal day of math, I ran to my room and crumpled in my bed. Numb from an apathetic work day, I threw on headphones and played Pink Floyd's album _Wish you were Here_. My mind calmed to their hectic music, and I began to try and understand why a sudden wave of sadness washed over me. My mind kept focusing on the day's actions, the bus rides and the geometry exchange mainly. I punched the wall to my right out of anguish and confusion, maybe because of how I hate school, maybe because the monotony of life. Probably both.

With that, I dozed off with tears staining my face and anger on my mind.


	4. Chapter 3: Dinner

Chapter 3: Dinner

The next day I started my end of day routine as normal. I unloaded my backpack onto my floor rug, discarding its contents randomly. I began to do English and History homework, writing papers and reading books about long ago wars. I lay on my floor riveted, unable to put down my pen. I heard my name being called from downstairs and knew it was dinner time. Hearing this, I walked downstairs and joined the family for a stir fry dinner.

My mother sat across from me, wearing jeans at least twenty years old gaging by the rips and tears, a white frilly shirt, and a long black sweater for we were still in a cold winter. Adorning her somehow still tanned arms was a plethora of silver and gold bracelets. My father sat to my left, wearing the clothes he wears at his Urology practice, a nice button down shirt, a red Kashmir sweater, khaki pants, and a belt. On his face lay a goatee recently finished growing. His brown eyes observed me sit, kind but slightly impatient for I had apparently not heard the first few times I was called downstairs.

To my right sat my younger sister, Gretchen, a strong girl, wearing a ratty Benny's shirt, our local hardware store, and sweatpants. Her hair was worse than mine for she insisted on not only never brushing it, but growing it as long as possible. She sat with her plate in front of her, hunched over it so that a strand or two of her hair sometimes dipped into various sauces. Despite her lack in manners, she meant well and was never one to hold grudges.

I grabbed a plate and greeted everyone politely, but quietly. I went to the granite counter and scooped various vegetables and chicken pieces onto my plate, and after grabbing a fork and knife, sat down at the table.

"How are you sweetie", my mother said, "How was your day?"

"The usual, bad. I just hate being treated like a stupid child", I replied while obviously not content.

"Oh come on, I went to school to you know, I had a really shitty time, but I pulled through", my Dad chimed in, "It's what you have to do, it gets better."

"Oh thank you, I really appreciate knowing that you had a terrible time somewhere and then decided to send me there too, cause that makes sense." I wanted to reply, but I held my tongue for I knew my father would only reply with something like, "It's good for you, it helps make you a man, and it betters you." And at least my dad my situation superficially.

"School was so great", Gretchen chimed in, "I got four A's today, but I did mess up and get a B+ in English so that made me feel pretty sad".

God I hated her, but hating her only made me hate myself for hating her. She was the favorite child of my mother and she embodied everything my mother was. Gretchen was incredibly studious, never gave up (only when it came to school work), and pretended she too was infatuated by the third-wave, male hating, feminist movement. Time and time again I found myself wanting to hate her for she was always upbeat and happy, and I always downtrodden, but I couldn't find myself able to hate someone just because they were happy, just because they were better.

"That's wonderful Gretchen", my mother said, "you know Alex, I don't want to make an argument at the dinner table, but I saw you had four zeroes in your math homework grade. If you applied yourself like Gretchen, maybe it would make you feel better about school."

Fearing the inevitable chastisement from my parents about neglected mathematics grades, I lowered my head pretending to be as ashamed as I could be and said, "I don't know, those things just always slip my mind after a few weeks of doing them."

"That's no excuse, work helps clear the mind", my father said.

I audibly sighed, attempting to elicit an end to this conversation. My prayers were answered and I was able to eat my food in silence. The entire time I ate my mind whirred round and round in an attempt to remind myself to stay calm during the upcoming argument. After realizing that, like every other time my mother and I speak of my math grades, would argue, and most likely yell, I began trying to come up with a counter argument. I then finished my meal, thanked my mother and father and helped do the dishes.

As I went upstairs my mother called me into the study and I begrudgingly took a seat. My mother came in after me and quickly typed in her identification into the computer to check my online grades. After obviously choosing my math grades she contorted her face in disgust.

"Alex, do you know what I see here", she said, exaggerating her facial expressions as If I was a child.

"My grades", I retorted, a blank stare on my face somewhere between annoyed and apathetic.

"Alex, come on, don't treat me like that. Alex, I am furious with you. You are missing…" she counted the zeroes appearing in the report, "SIX homework assignments! You're halfway through the quarter and your math grade is a sixty four! Alex, you are an honors student, I am ashamed that you do not apply yourself more."

I pretended to care, for I knew these speeches never lasted long. They always followed a simple pattern. First, my mother would yell at me as if I my goal in life was to only hurt her, the only manner of which I used being not doing math homework. Next, she would belittle me by saying something to the effect of "your sister didn't get into college with these grades". Then she changed her attack strategy, pretending to be my friend and she would ask what's going on. I would reply bluntly "I can't stand school, the annoying shitty people, the shitty teachers, the shitty administration, I can't stand it.", but that was not an acceptable answer to her. In a final attempt to get the reaction she wanted from me, an ashamed failure, she would cry.

As if she was reading my mind she replied, "Alex. Come on man, you can't be doing this to yourself, you're killing your chances of college. You know, Dartmouth isn't an option anymore, it's off the table."

I burst out laughing. I couldn't contain myself laughing for a few moments, but eventually I phased back to reality. "Mom, you thought Dartmouth was an option? That's rich". Wrong answer.

My mom went ballistic. I have never seen a woman this angry in my lifetime. I was beginning to suspect that any moment foam might appear in her mouth as she yelled at me about "respect" and other shit. I never meant to be disrespectful, I just thought the comment was funny. Did I know I was intelligent? Yes. Did I believe I was IV league intelligent? Not at all, and I was right. Randomly throughout her tirade she began crying. Even more confused than before, I stood like a deer in headlights. Waiting for this hell to end, I put the same old blank face on and waited.

Once her speech ended, I walked out of the room. I remembered saying some stupid excuses. I knew they were lame, but I couldn't just stand there and be yelled at for things as unimportant as math homework. While walking through the hallway to my bedroom my dad stopped me.

"Here we go again", I thought to myself.

"Son, listen. I really had a hard time in high school. I know how you're feeling. I wasn't that different from how you are now. You're feeling sad and lost and just want to move on", he said, "You know, you can be one of my best friends, and I hate to see you let yourself down like this." His tone was solemn, he never got angry, he just understood. I hadn't always gotten along better with my dad, but my mom was always mad at me. The one thing my dad did differently was try and understand the root, not the results of the problem. Either way, someone who understands a problem doesn't necessarily have the tools to fix them, and in this case my father did not. Despite all this, I cried and went to my room.


	5. Chapter 4: Dreams

Chapter 4: Sleep

My eyes were red, puffy, and tearstained. I couldn't understand why I was upset, maybe it was because of how poor my math grades were, more likely it was just because I wasn't feeling happy in life. I began to dwell on the latter, trying to ponder as to why I was always so distraught and unhappy when it came to my life. I laid down in my bed, tucked myself in at a relatively early hour, nine or so, and let my head drift to Pink Floyd's _Dark Side of the Moon_.

I fell asleep very quickly despite the loud music pumping from my phone. I dreamed I was dressed as an early American farmer. I wore a straw hat, ripped jeans, and a plaid shirt. Directly in front of me were rows corn and wheat. To the far right of my property was an orchard with apple and cherry trees. The cherry trees were in full bloom, their beautiful white petals blowing off whenever a large enough gust of wind blew. In the wheat fields, waves could be seen as a light breeze passed by. I turned my body around revealing a red barn and a small, red house.

I raised my head as I heard my name being called by a soft voice. A woman came out of the red home, waving me over to her. I walked over, and we immediately hugged the girl. She was shorter than I by six or so inches, had pretty, long, dark red hair, and had a welcoming presence. She pulled away from me, gave me a kiss, and, grabbing me by the hand, dragged me into the house.

Life was simple here, life was inviting here. I could care less for the hardships, I felt an artificial sense of happiness as I lived in this dreamscape. We were distant from politics, distractions, electronics. She and I both loved, were loved, and needed nothing else.


End file.
